When You Give A German Pasta
by RainbowOfNight
Summary: When Italy makes Germany some pasta, he figures out that pasta can be good for more than just eating. It can even bring a little spice to the situation...


**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

* * *

Germany disliked paperwork. No, more accurately, he despised it. It was like the thousands of little printed words were mocking him somehow, and the stack of papers by his desk that was half the size of most grown men was not aiding him in shoving that particular fact into the the back of his mind. All this was due in two days, and even working nearly around the clock he was not even halfway through it.

He clicked his ballpoint pen with boredom, trying to tear his eyes away from the dreaded pile.

"Germanyyyy!" A high eager voice suddenly called from the hallway. "Germany, where are you? I've just made pasta. Germanyyy!"

That accent was unmistakable. Germany's eyes widened with panic. "Italy," he sighed, putting the form he was working on to the side. He rubbed his aching head with his hand. "I thought I asked England to keep him away for the day. Well, he shouldn't expect any help from me the next time America decides to have one of his prank days.. Let his tea burn to ashes again this year."

He glared apprehensively at the closed door of his office and listened to the hurried footsteps outside in the hall.

* * *

**Meanwhile, in Frances room...**

"France!" An obviously irritated voice with a distinct British accent echoed off the walls of the bane of his exist- I mean 'acquaintance's' bedroom. "It is void, void I tell you, you ignorant bloke!"

England stared at the walls of the room, scanning the corners and shadows for any sign of movement. The blond haired Frenchman had to be here somewhere. Anger and fear were fighting for dominance in him.

France had decided that today would be a perfect day to discuss their marriage contract, the illegal document that England had been forced to sign. They had been having a civilized argument- as civilized as one that could be made with an Englishman and a Frenchman screaming obscenities at each in a confined space.

Then the time had come time when England had noticed a slight discoloration on his shirt from the the coffee he'd spilled that morning and had looked to examine the damage more closely, and when he raised his head France was nowhere to be found. In truth, France was n't _that _much of a problem. He was no America. The real issue was when he disappeared. Apparently he had also locked the door at some point, because the knob would not turn despite England's best efforts.

This had all been over ten minuted ago, and he was starting to worry, not just for himself but for France too.

"I hope he's alright," he muttered, wishing he had a nice soothing cup of Earl Grey tea to calm his nerves.

England breathed deeply, and the air seemed to catch in his throat when he felt two hands slither up his back and all the way up to his mouth, where soft fingers touched his lips tenderly. He tried to scream, but the sound was muffled by a hand pressed over his mouth as he was dragged down into a trap door discreetly carved into the floorboards, all within the time span of a few seconds.

"Valid, yes, it is," France breathed right by his ear.

England never knew about the stash of... "special toys" that France kept hidden under the floors.

_"I should have invited America to come with me," _he thought.

* * *

**Back in Germany's office...**

"But don't you want some pasta? I even made garlic bread," Italy cried as he displayed the dish of sauce-covered noodles and bread to a somber Germany, who was struggling to keep his temper in check around the other country. Was being this irritating an Italian thing? He would have to settle this, and soon.

"Italy," he began gently, taking the dish away from the smiling auburn-haired male and setting it on his desk. Steam rose around his face in a cloud. "You cook very well, truly, you do, but I really don't want any pasta right now."

Italy looked crushed for a moment, maybe even on the verge of tears, and his usual enthusiasm eluded him, but it returned quickly with a warm smile.

The way he bounced back from the hurt of rejection to cheerfulness was astounding... and a little scary.

"It's okay," we can have it together later," he said. "But I was going to give some extra I made to the others. Want to help? If they get mad I made sure I remembered to bring this." He took a small white flag from his pocket and waved it in front of Germany with feeling.

Germany was sure a pulsing vein was visible on the base of his forehead by now. "Italy, I thought I told you to throw that thing away! Surrender is not a battle strategy. And why don't you ask Romano-" He paused, an idea coming to light.

The other countries were very likely to accept gifts from Italy, with his innocence and general absence from most political matters. He glanced back at his desk, thinking of the vials of powered sedatives he stored in the back of a locked drawer (a precaution after Italy had found them and almost tasted one). This was a great opportunity to strike from the shadows at the Axis's enemies! The sedative could be easily enough concealed in a batch of spaghetti and sauce.

"Italy," Germany announced. "Are you ready to go right now?"

"Oh, yes, after I get the extras from the kitchen." He was positively beaming. "Thank you, Germany!" He ran up to him and wrapped his arms around his waist in a tight embrace, stretching to his full height to try to reach the taller country's shoulders.

Germany cracked a smile and lifted him him off his feet by the waist, putting them both at eye level. A faint tinge of red coloured Italy's cheeks, and Germany stroked his hair, fingering the curl that never stayed in place.

Italy's arms stayed firmly around his waist, and his smile looked brighter than usual, and his lips tasted like pasta sauce when he pressed them to his own.

"Oh, Italy."

* * *

**At Americas house...**

England walked into the living room shuddering still from France's forceful... no, he would not think about that again. It was worse than when Japan brought in his hentai collection to show to everyone, and _those _images were still vivid and colorful in his mind.

He stopped walking when he saw America lying face down on the couch, a video game controller still clutched in his hand. His blond hair was mussed from sleeping, and his glasses were askew on his face. England noticed a bowl of pasta half eaten beside him on the table.

Shaking America gently, seeing as he was his ride home, he noticed a strange white substance of the surface of the noodles. He leaned in closer, and nodded in silent agreement with himself.

"That's for not being when France-" He slammed his fist down on the couch cushion. He promised he wouldn't think about it! He glared at the sleeping America distastefully. "It should have been you."

* * *

**I don't know if there are actually powdered sedative... Anyway, this is only my second time at attempting a fan fiction in the humor genre. If you guys feel the urge to review, go right ahead. Criticism is fine, it helps me improve. :)**

**Flames however will be used in aiding the destruction of any of the fires started by England's cooking.**

**Me: *bows, retreats into shadows, trips on chair on the way there ***


End file.
